I write when I cannot speak,
Yet, now my hand and arm…
Prevent me conveying the words I seek,
Over zealous nerve endings, fingers curled to my palm.
My touch so sensitive, as if I’ve been burned,
Pins and needles, constant tingling, I cannot grip like I feel,
Crockery dropped, doors left closed, new dexterity learned,
Slicing bread and chopping food taken for granted. Now a big deal.
I’ve escaped my thoughts and my fate,
By keeping plenty on my plate,
Always hands on, difficult to let go,
Now losing my grip and feeling so low.
16th May 2020
Those of you who are early or avid readers of my blog, will know that poetry was how I started writing this. I’ve struggled to write a poem for ages and then yesterday this came from the darkness.
Read my other poems by searching or looking under the poetry category.